Bonds
by twoqueens
Summary: We've been stuck in dungeons before, but this time Peter isn't with me. AU Extended Golden Age. NO SLASH. Chapter 5 now posted. COMPLETE.
1. Trust

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

_Peter spurs his horse. His family is ahead of him―he can see them through the trees―just a little faster, or they'll leave him behind. _

"_Wait for me!" he calls. "Come on, Tarva, c'mon, you can run faster than this." Slowly, oh-so-excruciatingly-slowly, the distance closes until he can almost reach out and touch the others. Susan, her hair streaming in the breeze―Lucy ahead, impatient to catch the elusive Stag―and last and nearest, Edmund._

_Ed! Peter hardly dares look at him lest his brother vanish. But no―Edmund _is _there, real, whole, and solid, the blood warm in his veins, dark hair tousled from the ride and eyes merry with some jest. _

"_Brother! Brother mine!" cries Peter, reaching out to him, but Edmund can't―won't―doesn't hear him, and as the elder King's fingers close on his brother's sleeve, it crumbles into dust in his fingers._

"_Nooo! Edmund!" But the others vanish, and the forest is dark with looming shadows._

"_Selfisssh," they hiss with many creaky, watery, furry voices. "Selfish, selfish. How dare you leave them, little king? You were their rock. They trusssted you. Selfisssh."_

_A shadow rises up from the multitude and Peter cries out. "Mum!"_

_Her voice is cold. "You said you would look after them. You _promised_."_

"_Mum! I'm sorry―I tried―I'm sorry―" But she is gone._

_Another voice, panicky. "What have you done?"_

"_Susan―I didn't!"_

"_Peter, _please_?" and her lip wobbles, so very young and innocent. _

"_Lucy!"_

"_I protected you." Last and most cutting, Edmund's shade. "I saved your life so many times, and this is how you repay me?" His lips curled in a sneer. "Guess I wasn't the real traitor after all."_

"_Edmund! _Eddie! _No! No! Nooo! Don't leave me!"_

"_Peter, wake up. You're dreaming again." A hand jostles his shoulder, dragging him up from the depths of the nightmare. "Peter. It's a dream. Wake up."_

_He opens his eyes, and oh! what blessed relief to see the familiar face bending over him, dark hair tousled from sleep and eyes worried._

"_I'm here," says the beloved voice. "Go back to sleep." Peter's panic eases as the other heartbeat comes closer and snuggles against his chest. Together they breathe in, together they breathe out, and peace washes over the High King of Narnia as he sinks once more into oblivion._

* * *

Peter is still asleep when I wake, even though the sunlight streams through the curtains, and I hate to wake him. He's been sleeping poorly again, and I had to shake him out of nightmares more than once last night. What is he dreaming of? I wonder, knowing he'll tell me when he's ready.

He stirs and opens his eyes, smiling lazily at me. "Hi."

"Well, aren't you a merry sunshine this morning." I yawn.

He frowns, raising a hand to my cheek. "Did I wake you last night?"

"Once or twice. Some dream that must have been."

"Oh, D . . ."

"Don't call me that!" I scowl and push his hand away. Mornings. Why can't they be scheduled later in the day?

He rolls over and pushes himself up off the bed, going to the window and looking out. "Let's run away. I'm going to go crazy if I spend another day cooped up in here with that Telmarine senator and those squealing princesses. Lucy and Susan will be the death of me yet."

We're all restless with the snow finally melting and spring coming on. "We could steal something from the kitchens and make a day of it. Ride back early tomorrow morning?"

He turns, and there is a very un-Peterly smirk on his face. "Let's go north."

* * *

The staff is well-versed in our ways, and I talk Touille, the large Rat chef who runs the kitchens, out of a saddlebag of food without too much trouble. The Dryads look the other way, and Flintbeard, the head groom, winks at us when we ask if the coast is clear.

"No sign of the General, if that's what ye mean," the Dwarf says. Peter has already mounted Tarva, his fine Calormene stallion, the saddlebags behind him, and I swing up on to Glund.

"Our thanks, Flintbeard," says Peter. "Expect us before dawn tomorrow."

With furtive looks around, half-expecting Oreius to descend on us with a sound scolding, we clop out of the barn and make our escape through the main gate.

"No escort," says Peter to the Centaurs at the gate, and his tone brooks no argument.

"Your Majesties," they reply, saluting, and we are off.

"Let's go all the way," I yell over the wind as we turn north and urge our horses to gallop. Perhaps I can distract Peter from his nightmares―and his memories. Both of us have too many memories.

"Past the marshes?"

"Yes!"

We kick our horses and race on.

* * *

We reach the Shribble just as the sun is setting, and look for a place to camp out.

"I don't see anything I like," says Peter, the tetchiness coming over him again.

"What about there?" I say, pointing across the river. "That hollow there, under the cottonwood tree. It looks perfect, and there won't be Giants this far south this time of year."

Peter hesitates. "I don't know . . ."

"We can take turns watching. Just like old times?"

For answer, he flicks his reins and splashes into the water.

* * *

I must have nodded off after dinner, because I wake suddenly, cold and stiff and unable to move. The sun is long set, but the stars are bright here on the edge of the moors, and when I strain my eyes downward, flexing my arms, it becomes apparent that I'm tied to a tree, my sword and dagger gone. It must be same cottonwood we camped under, or one very like it; there aren't many trees here. Ah, yes―there's the embers of our campfire still smoldering. No sign of Peter . . . but I don't panic. Peter will come for me soon. All I have to do is sit tight and wait.

I wait. I watch the dying embers of the campfire. I listen to the little night sounds: the wind sighing through the grass, the chirping of crickets, the sleepy twitter of a moorfowl. My feet go numb and I squirm against the ropes, wishing I could scratch my nose and adjust the way my tunic's rucked up between my back and the tree trunk. Just a little longer now―what _is _taking Peter so long?

Ah, now there's a footstep!

"Peter? Is that you?"

_Thud. Thud. _It comes closer.

"Peter?" My voice is suddenly high and quavery. "Peter, where are you?"

A booming sound―laughter?―echoes above my head and my heart leaps into my throat.

"Lost someone, have you, little man?" says a deep voice, and a monstrous face leers down at me from above and behind. _Giant. _

_He doesn't know. He doesn't know who I am._

_Peter, _I try to scream. _Look out! _But I can't make a sound.

"Ain't you a tasty little morsel. And I thought we'd be having pony again. Obblegorb! Polyfemmus! Come lookee what I find!"

The tree quivers against my back as the other two Giants come thumping up. One's whistling a tuneless song and I bite my lip as the words come to mind. It's about the only song the Giants have―they sing it on the hunt or when marching into war. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

_With stumping stride in pomp and pride  
__We come to thump and floor ye . . . _

But even that thought can't distract me from the conversation being held above my head.

"Mite stringy, by the looks of 'im."

"Them young males is always tough. Best toss it in a stew and let it simmer."

I must keep calm. I must keep calm. Calm and clever. There will be time enough for panic later, after Peter comes to get me out―but what if he's already been captured? No. No, I can't think that way. He _will _come get me. All I have to do is stay calm, watch for an opening, and trust him to find me.

"But I don't want to!" whines the Giant called Obblegorb. "I allus have to clean them and man's such a finicky job. Messy, too. Can't we just roast the pony tonight and starve this one a day so I don't get uck all over my hands?"

"Fine, then, have it your way," growls the first Giant. "But you can carry the pony, since you're so precious fond of it. The man's going in _my _bag."

I get just a glimpse of a jagged blade in the darkness and I hold my breath―_please Aslan. _Then I'm falling stiffly away from the tree into a huge hand, and suddenly I find voice to scream.

"PETERRR!"

"Oh, shut up, you little bugger," and a deafening blow lands on the side of my head.

* * *

It's too dark to tell whether my eyes are open or shut when I swim into consciousness again. _Hush_, I think to the panic that wants to rise in my throat. _Hush. _Stay calm. Take stock of the situation. I wriggle my fingers and toes and cautiously turn my head. My hands are still bound by my sides, and my legs are tied together, but there don't seem to be any broken bones. I'm lying on something scratchy, dusty, and yielding―hay, or grass maybe. I hold my breath and listen the way Oreius taught us, stilling myself and opening my senses to hear the smallest sound.

Nothing. I can hear nothing, only a faint ringing in my ears and the rush of blood that is my own heartbeat. Beyond that is silence. Utter, overwhelming silence.

The panic rises up then and I black out for a little bit. I have no way to tell how long it's been when I come back. A minute? An hour? A day? All is dark; not even the skitter of a rat breaks the silence. I decide I must be in the Giants' cellar, from the musty smells of dirt and hay and old potatoes, and it must be the middle of the night, though I would have expected to hear them snoring.

Where is Peter? Was he also captured? Does he know where I am? I cannot answer any of these questions. I must wait, wait for morning and a little light and an opportunity. This is hardly the worst dungeon I've been in, and there will be an opportunity. There must be.

I think about the first time Peter and I were captured by Giants, barely a month into our reign. Back home, Giants were a nursery legend, a story to make children behave, but wild things walk here on the borders of Narnia, truer than any nightmare. By now I should know better than to think that an empty horizon can be anything more than an illusion of safety.

My mind strays to the girls, back home in the Cair. Are they safe? Oreius is probably furious, but at least he's with them―unless he's already mustered the army and set out to find us. I promised Su I would be at her tea party tomorrow . . . today, and right now it looks unlikely. She wanted me to meet her new friend, one of the visiting princesses. I dread the disappointed look in Su's eyes.

Should never have come this far north. My first duty is to take care of Peter, and it was irresponsible to suggest crossing the Shribble on a lark. I twitch my fingers again, trying to reach the knots, but it's no use.

The tears start then, trickling down the sides of my face into my ears―oh, _why _do I have to cry so easily? Ever since I was a child, and I've always hated the weakness. Peter ribs me about it, but then he always tenderly brushes them away for me. _Peter. _

There have been worse dungeons, but always we were together in our chains, encouraging each other as we awaited the stewpot―or the executioner. Peter is the one who begins the litanies, and I finish them. Peter is the one who comes up with hare-brained schemes, I the one who points out the flaws. Peter is my rock, and without him I am lost.

_Aslan, great Lion,_ I pray at last, not quite daring to speak the words aloud lest anyone is listening, not wanting to hear my wavering voice alone in the dark. _Watch over us. Guard us, protect us, and―please―bring us home again. _

I close my eyes, feeling the liquid pooling in my ears, and a draft of warmth stirs the chill. Is there a spicy, golden scent threaded into the dank stillness, or am I imagining it? So cold. So dark. So maddeningly silent.

Something touches my arm, and I scream, thinking it's one of the Giants, come to check up on me, or perhaps worse, one of their foul pets, nosing at tomorrow's dinner. My eyes fly open, and more tears blur my vision. But this time it's tears of relief, for there―there _he _is. His jerkin is ripped in several places, blood oozes from a long scratch on his cheek, and the glowing brand he holds aloft leaves most of his face in deep shadow, but oh, it's _Peter. _My Peter.

I try to reach out to him, forgetting that my arms are still bound. His lips move, with a questioning look in his eyes, but he's whispering too softly and I shake my head.

He bends closer and repeats himself, but still all I hear is the same faint ringing. Oh. _Oh no._ Horror and dread billow over me. _Aslan. No. Please. _

It's not silent.

I'm deaf.

* * *

**AN: With thanks especially to WillowDryad for her writing and for welcoming us, and to OldFashionedGirl95 for lending us the prayer Edmund says. The Giant song is taken from C. S. Lewis's own **_**Narnian Suite. **_

**What do you think? We have a big twist planned for the next chapter, so leave a review, please!**


	2. Fidelity

**Disclaimer: We own nothing.**

* * *

I fix my eyes on Peter's lips, trying to decipher his words. They are ruddy-white in the faint glow, shaping familiar yet incomprehensible patterns, and I shake my head in mute despair.

"I can't—can't hear you."

His eyes widen and he drops to his knees beside me; I shiver as he runs his free hand over me, checking for any other injuries, but I manage to hide my wince when he prods the bruise on my hip. "I'm fine, Peter," I say, unable to hear even my own voice. "It's just these ropes." I squirm. It's nice that he's so concerned for me, but it'd be even nicer if he'd untie me first and worry about the bruises later.

He looks guilty, as if he's heard me, and draws his dagger to saw at the ropes binding my arms. It's clumsy work, holding the makeshift torch aloft with one hand, and he's just gotten through the last twist of hemp line when he stiffens, his lips thinning.

I hold my breath, wondering what he's heard. A moment later, I feel it—deep, thumping vibrations overhead. Giant footsteps. My eyes meet Peter's: twin glances of horror in the darkness. Then he drops the torch, picks me up bodily in his arms, and runs.

I hold on with both hands around his neck as he carries me bridal-style. _Does he have any real plan?_ _I can't see where he's going at all._ He feints, dodging left and then right; then he drops to his knees and sets me down. We're in a corner; the footstep vibrations have for the moment paused. Peter fumbles his hands down my legs until he reaches the rope binding my ankles. A careful stroke and the loop falls away.

I grope for his hand in the dark and stagger to my feet. His other hand strokes my cheek once and then he turns to lead me forward. I don't know how he can see to move, but he seems to move unerringly in the dark. Five steps. Pause. Five more steps. Pause. Then we freeze at the_ thum . . . thum._ There's a shake in the air and Peter jerks.

I count to a hundred slowly in my head as we stand there motionless, listening, waiting. The vibrations have ceased, and Peter must not hear anything because he tugs me forward and we make our cautious way on until Peter stops short.

There's a faint light above, here, and dimly I make out a colossal stair stretching up before us, a yard of empty space yawning between each step. Peter squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. We can do this. We are together, and Aslan with us.

I breathe a prayer and then, one precarious step at a time, keeping firm hold on each other, we begin the climb. Two. Three. Boost Peter up over the edge. Pull myself up, with his help. Take two paces forward. Pause. No vibrations. Boost Peter up.

Without even so much as a whisper to reassure me, I have to depend on my other senses to follow Peter, tracking his movements carefully and depending on his strong grip each time to get me up out of the silence of my lonely step and onto the next. On the fourth step I trip as he pulls himself up and for a moment the vast understair darkness yawns terrifyingly before me. I try to scream, but nothing penetrates the silence all around me.

I flail, panicky, and nearly sob with relief when our hands connect in the darkness. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulls me up over the edge and we lie flat, catching our breath and waiting to see if my yell attracted any attention.

There are thirteen steps, riserless every one, and that is not the only time we nearly fall. At last we reach the top, where the light is stronger but still dim, and I can make out the irregular shape of the stone the Giants use for a cellar door. Perhaps the restless Giant earlier replaced it carelessly, or perhaps it simply doesn't quite cover the opening; at any rate there is a gap between the rock and the earthen rim.

With a look, we understand each other, and Peter jumps to catch the edge. I boost, he pulls himself up; with a scramble he disappears through the gap. A moment later his hands appear and with a firm clasp he pulls me after him.

There remain only three sleeping Giants to creep past, but the pale pre-dawn seeps in through chinks in the walls and after the vault-like darkness below we can see well enough—or so I think, until I put my foot down wrong on the rutted ground and gasp with pain. Peter's hand tightens on mine, and despite the chilly air it is slick with sweat.

The Giants are lumpishly huge. Obblegorb, the smallest, sleeps flat on his back, his mouth open and a long disgusting thread of saliva trailing down the side of his face. The others, larger, sleep curved on either side of him, their faces grotesque and pitted with filthy pores. The unnamed one who captured me stirs and rolls over, smacking his lips with some hideous dream, and the ground shakes.

The air is fetid with rancid bodies and rotten blood, and I can feel the sound waves of the snores buzzing on my face. The Giant stills again, and I take a step forward. Pain shoots up from my ankle. Sprained. The Giants' huge, old, scarred dog shifts in the corner and raises his head. That's when Peter grabs me up, throws me over his shoulder, and runs.

The door isn't quite closed, and my head bumps against the jamb as Peter squeezes through. My hands fist tighter in the fabric of his shirt, desperately hanging on. Behind us the dog gets up, sniffing curiously, and I catch my breath, silently urging Peter to _hurry, hurry!_ But we make it through just as the dog ambles towards the door, and we are sprinting toward safety by the time he noses at the crack. I see that he is barking but doesn't seem to be able to fit through._ Praise be to Aslan! Let the Giants sleep just a little longer . . ._

Freedom is so close, I can taste it. We run—or rather, Peter runs and I cling to his shirt with all my might, hoping the horses are somewhere near because not even Peter can outrun a Giant. I keep looking back, expecting at any moment to feel the dread _thum thum_ of giant footsteps as the brutes come into sight.

My heart pounds dreadfully, but Peter is tossing me onto Tarva and swinging into the saddle in front of me, and still there is no sign of the Giants. With a jerk, Peter frees the reins from the knob of rock they're twisted around and then he's leaning forward, digging his knees into the horse's side and whispering in his ear so that the fine Calormene stallion leaps forward, probably snorting. Chunks of dirt fly out behind us and I have to dig my fingers into Peter's hips to stay on.

It is only then that I notice that Glund is missing, and I hear in memory the Giant's leering voice. _Pony again,_ it said. _I'll carry the manling in_ my _bag_. An ache swells in my heart that hurts more than any of my scratches and bruises, more than the persistent ringing in my ears._ Sweet Aslan, no_. Glund, my loyal, spirited stallion—gone. Eaten by Giants. Because of my own foolishness.

I look back again, The air shakes with a terrifying roar, and _oh no_, behind us a distorted face appears in the rough window of the Giants' shack, mouth open with rage.

"Peter!" I shriek, and we flatten against Tarva's neck as he speeds forward into a dead run. I wrap my arms around Peter's waist and lock my fingers together, twisting my head back to watch.

_Aslan, help. Aslan, help. Aslan, help,_ my mind chants in rhythm with the horse's hoofs.

Somehow, mercifully, the Giants decide not to give chase—or perhaps they're too hungover to see clearly—and the hut slowly drops back. Under my ear, Peter's thumping heartbeat slows. I find I am shaking from adrenaline.

And then, in the terrible chasm of solitude that my deafness has thrust me into, I am naked, helpless against the onslaught of my own mind's condemnation. _Peter could have died._ You_ could have died. Just like Glund. It would all be your fault. Your fault . . ._

No! I never meant to put Peter in danger.

_But you did, and for no reason—worse, for your own amusement. What kind of monster does that to their own . . ._

Tears, hot and sudden, fill my eyes and course silently down my cheeks, and the guilty shame feels like sickness in my stomach. _Aslan, forgive me! I did not choose treachery._

It is all too much to bear alone. I bury my face against Peter's back to muffle what I know must be audible sobs coming from my lips. My arms slip around his waist to hold him tightly, drawing what comfort I may from his strength though I know I have done nothing to deserve it.

But he puts his hand on top of mine and squeezes, as though wordlessly reassuring me,_ it's all right, I'm here,_ and I can feel vibrations through the muscles of his back, and I know he is talking to me, as the rumble of his voice resonates through me. Even though I cannot hear his words, I know he is telling me what he has always told me:_ I will always come for you, D. It's what I do. And there is nothing you can do that will ever change that, because we are family._

Tarva settles into a smooth canter and, lulled by the smooth rhythm of his stride and the large warmth of Peter under my cheek, my shuddering sobs ease and even the pit of shame and bile in my gut fades to a nagging guilt.

* * *

I dream of Susan's eyes, dark and serious. _You said you'd be at my tea party. Why weren't you?_ I open my mouth to form an answer but nothing comes out and Susan begins to weep—

I dream that I'm dangling from Polyfemmus's hand as he leers at me; up close one of his eyes is clouded and sightless_. I ate your precious High King,_ he gloats, _and I ate your measly ponies, and now I will eat you._ I struggle in his grip. _Peter!_ I cry. _Peter, help!_ but my voice is mute and Peter does not come and Polyfemmus raises me to his mouth—

I dream of nothingness, and I am lost in it. I bring my hand before my face, but it is not there. In its place is a wild panicky void, as if I swam too far out to sea and thought I could still touch the bottom but when I reached for it, it was gone; and I sink into the overwhelming blackness where there is no sight, no sense, no sound—not even the beating of my own heart. In the silence there is only the screaming of my mind. _Selfish, selfish,_ it whines, and I curl into myself against its blows—

I dream of light. Into the stillness there comes a golden warmth, padding softly toward me on great paws. He speaks no words, but bends over me and breathes out a long, gentle sigh that wraps around me like a living flame that does not burn—

And then I sleep and do not dream.

* * *

It is the crackling of a fire that wakes me at last, and the cool touch of a wet cloth on my brow, and a voice—

A spark of hope igniting in me, I fight through the fog of sleep that lies thick and heavy over me, numbing my limbs and clouding my thoughts, but I am still in that nebulous state between waking and sleeping and it is a long climb up. "Peter!" I try to shout, but my tongue feels fuzzy and my mouth refuses to form the words. Am I still dreaming?

And yet—no. That voice is too real for imagining, too real to be a dream. _Thank you, Aslan,_ I breathe silently, a poor articulation of the gratitude welling up in me, for I can hear again. I can hear the crackle of the fire and the wind in the leaves and a robin chirping its early morning song, but most importantly, I hear a beloved deep murmur so familiar that the thought of never hearing it again nearly broke my heart. It is the voice that soothes me, the voice that teases me, the voice that vowed to stand by my side forever and always find me.

_Peter._

And the bass rumble of the voice I love most in all the world—next to Aslan's—talking to me as I sleep is enough to make the tears come again. Tears of relief, this time, as I begin to make out individual words. _Lion._ He's talking about me.

". . . what did you do to yourself?" He's dabbing with a wet cloth at my ear, where the Giant struck me, bathing away the dirt and sponging the dried blood out of my hair. "You have a lump on your head, scratches all over your arms, rope burn here—" he feathers a finger across my wrist "—not to mention the ankle you sprained in the Giants' House. And didn't you wince earlier . . .?" His warm, sword-calloused fingers peel back my tunic and push the waistband of my trousers down over my hipbone. _Blast. And I thought I hid it so well._

"_D_," he mutters, in a tone that implies I really should know better. He traces the outline of the bruise on my hip—probably a spectacular rainbow of purple and yellow by now—but I keep my eyes closed, not ready to let him know I'm awake yet.

"You know," he muses, "I worry _every da_y that something will happen to you, that a Giant or a Hag will carry you off for their own foul uses, and that—that would be the end." His fingers are twisting restlessly in my hair now, and his voice drops to a hoarse whisper. "Oh, D . . . I can't lose you. I wouldn't be able to bear it if anything happened to you. Not after—not after what happened to—to—" His voice breaks into a sob and a drop of wetness falls on my neck.

I hold my breath.

_"Not after what happened to—to the others,"_ he finishes brokenly, still unable to speak the name he has not uttered in over ten years.

* * *

**AN: I lied last time. Sorry. V made me put off most of the "big twist" until next chapter, but I hope this is enough of a cliffhanger for you all. Who is Peter thinking of? Leave a review and tell us what you think!**


	3. Confession

**Disclaimer: We own nothing.**

"Then it's a good thing I'm not going anywhere," I say, opening my eyes and attempting a smile. _Someday he will manage to do it. Someday he will utter that name without breaking down. And I will be here for him._

"You can hear me," he whispers.

I nod.

"You can_ hear_ me," he repeats.

"Aslan came to me, in the . . ." Well, it's not exactly night anymore. More like mid-morning. "While I was sleeping. My ankle still feels sprained, but at least I can hear you again."

I let out a startled_ oof_ as I'm crushed in a ferocious bearhug and more tears drop onto my neck. "Shhh, shh," I soothe, tangling my fingers in his golden hair and drawing his head up until his eyes meet mine. "I'm right here, Peter." It is at times like this that I love him most, when he drops his defenses and I can see the naked worry in his face, the overpowering love and care that tells me I will always, always, _always_ be wanted.

Knowing, though, is not enough. There is a carefully balanced give-and-take to these conversations: words I must say and words I must hear, so I pull myself up to a sitting position, ignoring the flash of pain that stabs my ankle.

"I'm sorry, Peter," I whisper, looking away and letting the sick guilt in my stomach bubble up again. "I'm so, so sorry. If I hadn't suggested riding this far north—if I hadn't pushed to camp on the far side of the Shribble—I insisted there wouldn't be any Giants and that was stupid and foolish. We could have both been killed. You could have been killed, Peter, and then who would take care of the girls?" I bow my head in shame. "My King, can you ever forgive me?"

His hands cradle my face, stroking my cheeks gently with his thumbs. "I can. I will. You were trying to distract me from my nightmares, and we both should have known better than to assume it was safe. If anyone is to blame, I am."

"Peter . . ."

"I am. I never should have left, even for a minute, while you were sleeping, and you nearly were made into a _pie_. I know very well I'm the reason we go on these rides, and D—"

I put my hands on his shoulders, resting my forehead against his. "Peter." So many things we don't say, that we can only feel, but we don't have to do it alone.

He catches himself, swallows hard. "What's past is past. Aslan has given us a new day, you and I, and we must honour his gift and put aside this unending regret." He gazes at me for a moment, and there is vulnerability in the way he looks at me, the strength of the King set aside and I know in this moment he is just Peter. His voice is unusually gentle as he catches the tear that slips down my face with his thumb. "There is nothing you could do that would ever make me love you less."

"I don't deserve it," I whisper, closing my eyes. The truth in his eyes is too much for me to bear.

"Neither do I. Neither did—" His voice breaks again, and he buries his face in my hair. I feel him ghost a kiss across my brow. "None of us deserves it," he says, composing himself and pulling me close against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around my waist. "You don't have to earn my love. You already have it. And you always will."

Overwhelmed, I sink into the refuge of his embrace, knowing that I am safe here, exactly where I long to be. Peter will always protect me, always come for me, and always love me, no matter what.

* * *

A roll of thunder rouses me. "Oh bother, is it going to rain?" I grumble into Peter's shirt.

Peter stiffens, pushing himself up from the ground and helping me to my feet as the first drops of rain fall.

"Are you sure you can walk?" he asks, hovering over me.

I clench my teeth against the pain. "Really, Peter, I'm _fine_. Put out the fire and let's go home."

He gives me a dubious look but I shoo him away and go to repack the saddlebags, so he douses the remains of the campfire and smothers it with cut turves. We've broken camp together often enough, and in very short order everything is loaded and we swing aboard Tarva, who tosses his head in protest of the extra load. He's had a couple hours to graze, though, and settles into a long swinging canter that eats into the miles.

"If we hurry, we can still get back in time for supper," I say hopefully, swiping rain out of my eyes with the back of my hand.

Tarva snorts, and it's almost as if he understands my words. Peter nods in agreement with the horse. (_Really, Peter, the horse?_) "Tarva has had a hard ride through the night. It would be cruel to press him any faster."

Impatient and longing to be home, I sigh and turn my head to rest against Peter's back, looking out upon the woods slowly creeping by.

"We missed Su's tea party," I say.

"Buck up, old chap! At least you missed the squealing princesses, too."

"True." And then a thought comes to me and I sit up, digging my fingers into Peter's shoulders. "Peter, listen to me. You are not, and I repeat, _not_, under _any_ circumstances to refer to me as 'D' in front of the Telmarine senator, the princesses, or the girls. I know you like it—"

"It's for old times' sake!" he protests.

"I know, and I enjoyed that trip to Calormene as much as you did, and I do agree you were justified in wishing to keep our identities secret for a time, which was a good reason to shorten my name to 'D.' But not in front of the girls. Last time you did that Susan was giggling for days. Around the senator it's just undignified."

"Would you prefer _DeeDee?_" He smirks at me.

"Only if you wish me to refer to you—in a council meeting, no less—as_ T_. I'll tell the Telmarine senator it's short for _High __King Petie_."

"You wouldn't."

"I _would_." Further argument is cut off by a crack of thunder so loud it shakes the ground. "What was _that_?"

"Not rain," Peter says grimly, suddenly tense as if he senses danger, and he is scrabbling with the packs on Tarva's side. I see him find the bow stowed away and start to string it, and then he turns the horse's nose toward the woods and kicks hard.

My breath catches. _T__he Giants_.

I can hear their footsteps, thudding a long way off, but from the way the ground is shaking I know it won't be long until they catch up to us.

Nothing is worse than hungry, angry Giants.

We are into the woods; this will not hold them off for long, just give us a better shot at them while granting us precious cover. We'd be sitting ducks out on the plains.

Peter tumbles off Tarva's back and throws the quiver of arrows over his shoulder. He turns to me and gives me a brief pleading look. "Go. Ride to safety. Tell—tell the girls —"

"_No._ I won't leave you." I know I won't be much help in this fight, not with my ankle, but I will not leave Peter here alone, when it is my doing that the Giants are pursuing us.

He stares at me for a moment, calculating, then nods. "Then stay hidden. I'll—I'll do what I can."

And before I can say another word—before I can tell him to be careful, or good luck, or even that I love him—he is off, charging to the North.

They look like terrible lumbering mountains as they darken the horizon, those awful too-familiar shapes that seem to block out the sun. What chance does Peter have?

_No_, I tell myself. Peter has slain a thousand and more of their kind. He will prevail again. He won the Giant wars; if anybody can defeat these three, he can.

He takes down the dog with a single arrow—that is how the Giants tracked us so easily, I realize—and then he is firing shot after shot at the first of them, the one who caught me. _I never heard his name_ . . . I almost laugh, but instead a choking kind of sob comes out. What does his name matter? All that matters is Peter, standing so bravely before the coming onslaught, a mere man before Giants, but oh! what a man. I remember the old story of the shepherd boy and his slingshot, and the Giant who had defeated every great warrior. That boy had become King too.

_Peter, be careful. Good luck. I love you._

The first Giant is down. _Thank you, Aslan._

He is on to the next one, with no time to spare; the horrid creatures are nearly upon him, and Peter can only unleash one more arrow into the leg of the second Giant, who roars with pain and charges, and Peter has to drop his bow and quiver and draw Rhindon from its sheath. Even from the shelter of the woods, I can see the glint of its sharpened edge, the gleam of its lion-head, as bright and golden as the King who wields it.

Furiously he slashes at the exposed feet of the Giant—Polyfemmus, I think—and narrowly avoids being stepped on. He needs to use all the quick footwork of our swordfighting practice and more to survive this battle. Still astride Tarva, who is pawing and snorting at the sight of his master fighting without him, I can hardly bear to watch, though there is no way I can look away either.

My body is strung as tightly as a bow, and I breathe a silent prayer for his safety, tracking his every movement. Polyfemmus stomps a monstrous foot at Peter, who leaps out of the way and around behind him, using the Giant's size and slowness to his own advantage.

_Oh, well done Peter!_

One wicked swing and Rhindon cuts through flesh and tendon, sending the Giant sinking down to ground clutching his ankle and cursing violently. The ground shakes as Polyfemmus crashes to his side. Still behind him, Peter points Rhindon directly at the Giant's back, right where his lung lies, and sinks the blade to the hilt.

I unclench my hands from Tarva's mane, breathing a little easier—only one left, and Peter can dispatch him easily. He is already tearing Rhindon from the back of the dying Giant and whirling to face the remaining opponent. I do not like the way Obblegorb is grinning and chuckling, an evil-sounding rumble that resonates like a black wave, and frantically I wonder why he has hung back all this time.

He advances on Peter, undeterred by the sight of the King who has just slain his brethren, and I expect Obblegorb to try to trample him or reach down and grab him.

He does none of these things. Instead, in one swift motion, the Giant whips a leather pouch from his belt and dives for Peter. _Run! Get away!_ But Peter tries to fight back, swinging Rhindon at the Giant's reaching hand, and getting its blade tangled in the strings.

Cold horror sweeps over me as Peter is engulfed in the pouch and Obblegorb puts a monstrous booted foot over it—_him_—and my heart stops until I realize that the Giant isn't moving. He's just holding his foot there, as if deciding. Not that that's any better. Even if Peter manages to get Rhindon free and breaks through the leather of the pouch, there is no way he can pierce the foot that is threatening to crush him.

_Peter!_

**AN: Well, what do you think? This chapter grew wildly in the writing (I suppose that's what happens when I let V add extra Giant chases!) and so we had to cut it in half. Stay tuned for the next half, which we intend to post tomorrow, Sunday evening, and after that an epilogue (if you haven't already followed, might do that—this is an ending you will NOT want to miss) and leave a review on the way out. Thanks! ~K**

**AN2: Forgot to add, thank you to WillowDryad for Peter's nickname! **


	4. Grace

**Disclaimer: We own nothing**

* * *

I can't tear my eyes from the horrific sight before me: Peter, trapped in the Giant's hunting bag, pinned by a crudely booted foot longer than he is tall. The slightest movement—if Obblegorb shifts his weight or trips—then_ Peter_ . . .

_Aslan. What will I tell the girls? How can I live with myself if. . ._

Tarva neighs wildly, as if he knows the danger and wants to help, and the sound jolts me into action. I am_ not_ helpless. I _cannot_ sit back and do nothing and watch Peter die right before my eyes.

"Go!" and with a jab of my heels, Tarva is off, galloping toward the Giant. One hand clutching his mane, I scrabble in the pack of supplies for the only thing I can think of that might stop Obblegorb. This is not my best plan but I know that at any moment Peter might be killed, and my heart beats so fast I think it might pound right out of my chest. I can't_ think_ fast enough.

I am haunted by the image of Peter pinned under the Giant's huge foot, moments from being crushed, but no, I cannot think about that, I just have to_ hurry_. My own sword will be no use against the thick leather of the Giant's boots, and I am not tall enough to reach beyond them. This has to work.

There it is, by the body of the first Giant. I spare a glance at Obblegorb, who is grinning stupidly at his own cleverness and paying me no attention. "Shhh," I urge Tarva, pulling him to a halt and slipping off his back. We are hidden by the arrow-riddled carcass, but time is not on my side. My ankle seizes at the pressure of my weight, but I can barely feel it; all my focus is on reaching the bow on the ground.

"Now I've got ya, little man," says Obblegorb, "and ye've done me a service, popping off the warty blighters . . . allus taking the best sheep for them's own selves, they was."

_Hurry, hurry_! My hands are shaking. I don't have time for this. _Think. Think! Take hold of the oilcloth that wraps my sword, tie it on the end of the arrow, draw out a sulphur stick from the pack . . . don't shake . . . take off the stopper from the little bottle of sulphuric acid . . ._

"Dunno if I should kill ye now or later. Allus best fresh, men is, but can't risk ye running off agin. . . . "

The stick bursts into flame. I thrust it into the oilcloth and notch the arrow, pointing it at my target. "Best be safe than sorry," says the Giant, shifting his massive weight toward the boot that is covering Peter . . .

I release the arrow, and it finds its mark in the monster's groin. He lets loose an earth-shattering roar and falls, his clothes catching fire as he tries without success to put it out. Already I'm drawing out another arrow, aiming it straight for his eye; the next flies to his chest, and Obblegorb howls horrifically.

_Peter._ On unsteady legs and cursing my treacherous ankle, I break into a limping run and finally reach the huge pouch, flinging open the leather. Peter is breathing heavy, looking dazed and shaken but otherwise unhurt—he may have suffered a concussion—but he recognizes me at least. "Thank Aslan you are safe," he whispers through white lips. "The Giant—"

"Will never hurt us again," I say, gritting my teeth and taking up Rhindon. And I slay the ill-begotten Giant for Peter's sake.

* * *

It takes awhile to gather our scattered things and soothe Tarva to the point he'll allow us to mount again. We ride south, our pace slowing as the the day goes on. The rain stops and the sun comes out to simmer us in our wet clothes; we stop a little before noon on the far side of the Rocky River to wash and drink and eat some crumbled bread and melted cheese from the saddlebags. We loaf for half an hour so Tarva can graze, and then we press on.

The afternoon is longer than the morning, and Tarva falls to a walk. The sea stretches glittering on our left, the forest on our right, as we ride down the bare strip on the edge of the coast. The sun creeps by overhead, inch by inch, until at last it slides behind the western mountains and a chill dusk falls. I doze a little, my arms locked around Peter and my head on his shoulder, but jolt awake to the sound of cries and hustling movement.

"There they are!"

"How-how-howwww!"

"Their Majesties!"

And the whole Dog pack surrounds us, barking and howling with joy, as we enter the main Cair Paravel gate. "You're back! You're safe! Where-where-where were you? Oh-oh-oh!"

"Greetings, good Dogs," I say, blinking in the torchlight. Several nervous Fauns come toward us with clean cloths for Tarva and for any wounds we may have sustained, but their ministrations are preempted by a deep voice saying, "Your Majesties!" and the clopping of large hooves. Peter and I exchange twin looks of resigned foreboding.

"Your Majesties," says Oreius again, trotting toward us with a torch in hand. "It was ignoble and foolish of you to disappear with neither guard nor message. Their Highnesses Susan and Lucy have quarrelled in your absence, and her Highness Susan wept long yester even, asking when you would return. The Dogs tracked your scent to the Rocky River, and returned much agitated when they could not find you, and the Great Cats still crisscross the forests, searching for you. Where have you been, my monarchs?"

Even seated on Tarva, we still have to look up to meet Oreius's eyes. "I'm sorry—" I begin, but Peter cuts me off.

"No, it's my fault. We went riding north for the day, and by my carelessness—"

"I was captured by Giants, and Peter had to rescue me."

"We got safely away," he continues, "though we were chased south as far as the Rocky River—"

"And I had to rescue Peter—"

"Then we rode hard for home."

It is a recitation substantially the same as every other scrape we've gotten ourselves into in the last ten years, and Oreius scowls. "You are too _old_ for this foolishness, your Majesties, and quite adult enough to know better than to cross the Narnian border without a guard. It was selfish of you. Though by Aslan's mercy you have escaped unscathed yet again, the Great Lion does not watch our steps to save us from our own arrant carelessness."

He stares at us for a long moment, as both Peter and I do our best to look contrite. "It won't happen again, General," says Peter.

He snorts, a great horsey Centaur-laugh of derision. "Go to bed, your Majesties, and be sure you stop in to see Their Highnesses Susan and Lucy, who have been much distraught."

"Thank you, General," I say.

He turns to go, throwing back over his shoulder. "I expect you both in the training yard an hour before dawn tomorrow, for an instructive visit to the points of the compass."

We groan theatrically (but really, we expected no less) and slide off Tarva. "I'll take him to the stables," says Peter, "if you want to go check on the girls."

I unbuckle my swordbelt and toss it to him. "Put that away for me, too, would you?"

"Sure."

"Thanks. I'll go apologize to Su about missing her tea." I cut across the courtyard, dodging a worried Owl and a sleepy Cat and making for the front stairs, likely to be deserted at this hour of the evening. Taking the steps two at a time, I nearly step on Lucy's inert form.

She's fallen asleep on the landing, waiting up for us, her head pillowed on her hands, and my heart cracks a little as I bend over her. Her golden curls are smushed against her cheek, sticky with honey and sweat, and her eyelashes flutter open as I ease a hand under her to lift her.

"Mmy'reback," she mumbles.

"Shh." I brush back her hair and drop a kiss on her forehead. She curls into me, her arms wrapping around my neck, and as I carry her up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom I vow to myself I will never be so foolhardy again. Peter and I can find safer ways to have fun, closer to home. _Oreius is right. We're too old to not think of others._

Susan is asleep, her arm wrapped around the stuffed rabbit she pretends she doesn't care about and her dark hair splayed across the pillow. "I'm sorry, Su," I whisper. "I'll help you schedule a ball and teach all the squealing princesses how to dance if you want."

Lucy's bed is across the room, the covers already turned down by Alba, the Dryad in charge of the girls' bedchamber. I tuck her in, straightening her nightgown where it's gotten tangled around her legs and pulling up the pink-and-white quilt, for the windows are open and already the night is cool.

"Sleep well," I whisper over them, and shut the door quietly behind myself. It's time for a bath—I still smell of Giant.

* * *

Bathed and dressed for bed, I breathe a sigh of relief as I enter Peter's room. I can come freely here, knowing I am welcomed and cherished, that whatever may come I am assured of my place in his heart and his home.

By the time I slip into the darkened room, Peter is asleep, though a fire still flickers, dying to embers, on the hearth and a single candle casts a soft light on his face. I pause, my heart swelling in my breast, for he has never seemed more golden than in this moment. In spite of myself, I murmur to myself, "You will always be my King."

For a moment Peter stirs, as though he will awaken, and I catch my breath, not daring to move, not wanting him to awaken from this spell that seems to lie over him. Then his eyes flutter closed once more, and soon he is breathing deeply. I watch by his bedside a little longer, entranced by the way the candlelight glints through his golden hair and throws shadows across the lean planes of his abdomen.

Yet somehow I hesitate to join him. The old doubts creep back in. _What if he sends me away? Should I even be here, after what happened? I cannot bear to be without him again . . . but I have done nothing to deserve a place at his side . . . "_

As if he heard my thoughts, Peter opens his eyes and looks straight at me, blue fire running through my veins at the sight. "Come here," he says simply, and I do.

The covers are soft underneath and I snuggle against his chest for warmth, for I am not as warm-blooded as he. He slips his arms around my waist and draws me in tightly. I let out a long shuddering sigh. I am _home_.

"My own," he says in a voice that shakes with emotion, "I wish we would never have to be apart."

"Lion willing, we will never have to be," I whisper back.

I feel the soft touch of his lips on my forehead, caressing my face with his breath. My own comes hard, drawn in deep exhales to still the fast pulse of my heartbeat. Joy, wild and exhilarating, rushes through me at being by his side, pressed to his heart.

"I will never let you go," Peter murmurs for my ears alone. "Never."

Something jumps deep inside me. I turn my face up to his. "I am yours. Do with me as you will."

His hand is warm against my cheek, cradling it with the gentlest of touches. I mimic his actions, my hand stroking his face gently, feeling the stubble across his chin graze my fingertips

Suddenly I am on my back in his bed, laid out before his piercing gaze. I hiss as his fingers close over the raw marks on my wrist.

"Why didn't you get these bandaged?" he demands.

"It's just a little burn from the ropes, nothing more." I don't know whether to hope that he is content with this answer or still intent on pursuing it.

From the look in his eyes, it's clear that he is in the latter state.

"Show me," says Peter, his voice steely. "All of it. I need to see. To know . . . you're all right . . ."

With trembling fingers, I unlace the cords of my white nightshirt and pull it over my head. Peter lets out a breath I didn't know he was holding as my pale skin comes into sight. His fingers, rough with callouses, trace old scars on my shoulder and then the fresh contusion across my ear. "What did they _do_ to you?"

"Knocked me out when I screamed." I try to smirk, but it comes out more of a grimace.

"And this?" His palm ghosts over a scrape on my stomach.

"The treetrunk."

"Here? Oh D . . . " Peter shuddered as he found the blooming splotch on my hip where I'd fallen hard against the dungeon wall floor.

"It's all right." I swallow hard; it's not the pain that makes me tremble so. "I've had worse." The unspoken words lie between us:_ I deserve much worse._

"You have had so much pain," he says, jaw set tight. "No more. Tonight must be only joy." His hands return to my face, and I look straight into his blue eyes, unable to look away as he kisses me solemnly on each cheek. "Diamonda Estyl Pevensie—"

"Don't you dare call me that in bed, Peter. Even D is preferable to _that_."

"My beloved Queen," he amends. "My own, my salvation," and with each word his kiss is a little farther down my jaw. "My love. Don't you know that I am yours?"

"My husband," I breathe, and then his lips are on mine. For once, no ghosts come between us.

* * *

**AN: Wait, what?**

** Yes, you read that correctly.**

**Please review!**


	5. Truth

**Disclaimer: We own nothing.**

**AN: Dear Eru, it's been a long time. Our sincere apologies for the hiatus! I (K) was traveling, and then came home to no internet for a week, and by then I had a lot of things to catch up with on my primary account, so this one fell by the way. I'm sorry, and if any of you are still reading, _thank you_. I know you had a lot of questions after the end of the last chapter, so we tried to answer all of them here. Monster chapter warning right now—we kept cutting, but the chapter refused to be any shorter than this.**

**The reasons behind the writing of this story are complex and go deeper than merely messing with your minds for the fun of it. We'll explain our thought processes at the end, and hopefully by then all your questions will be answered. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

"Mommy! Daddy!" A scamper of running feet and a thump-_thump_ on the end of the bed announces the Princesses' presence. I hear Peter's groan as I crack one eyelid open. We've already been rousted once so Oreius could chase us all around the castle and up and down tower stairs for our routine early morning exercise—which we knew better than to try to get out of merely because we'd gotten ourselves into a scrape the day before. (The most unnerving part of it is the way he maintains the folded-arm glare even when galloping).

After that ordeal (both Peter and Oreius insisted I take a drop of the Queen Lucy's Cordial before we began, refusing to let me run on my injured ankle) we dragged ourselves up the stairs, let the Faun valet unbuckle our vambraces and pull off our mailshirts, and stumbled back into bed.

"Tell the guards we're indisposed, Celerus," Peter mumbled as the Faun closed the door to our bedroom. "Not _occupied_, just indisposed."

"Very well, Sire." _Occupied_ is code for _engaged in potentially embarrassing activities during which Our children should especially not be permitted to disturb Us_. Indisposed just means we want to sleep. Indisposed does not mean the guards will stop the girls from charging in with their morning news, even if we've only been asleep for an hour.

"Mommy! Mommy!" I open my other eye and get a faceful of cat thrust at me. "Twinkie had kittens!"

"Twinkie?" I echo uncomprehendingly, sitting up. He and Bruin are the girls' pet cats: Lucy's huge, lazy Bruin and Susan's tiny, sleek Twinkie lie together in the sun by the hour, washing each other and sleeping with their paws around each other.

"_Twinkie_ had kittens?" I repeat.

"Mmhm!" say two voices, and Lucy shows me an armful of wriggling black and orange kits, while Susan bounces on her father's legs. Peter has pulled the quilt over his head and is grumbling to himself.

"Wake up! Wake up, Daddy, and look at the kittens!"

"_Indisposed_," he mutters, and I poke him in the side.

"Rise and shine, lazybones," I say in my most cheerful voice, and then he has to come out, if only to glare at me.

"I thought Twinkie was a boy," he says, his hair sticking in every direction.

"Seems my mother was wrong," I say. "It wouldn't be the first time." She was the one who gave the girls the cats—for Susan a tiny black kitten, for Lucy a larger tabby. "Both male," she explained at the time, "so you won't be overrun with kittens!"

Peter and I exchange a glance—but the girls refuse to be ignored.

"Mommy," says Susan, crawling into my lap and taking my face in her five-year-old hands. "Where were you? You said we'd have tea with me and Violetta and Gambetta and you _di'n't_. The General said you was being naughty."

"Susan!" says Lucy, ever the proper older sister, from her perch on Peter's lap.

"Susie—Lu-lu—your mommy did some stupid things yesterday and your daddy had to come find me—" Peter makes a protesting noise but I ignore him. "The General was right, we were being naughty, and Mommy and Daddy were in big trouble when they got home."

"Like a spanking?" Susan asks, giggling.

"_No,_" interjects Peter, perhaps a little too quickly. There wasn't any spanking last night. (It has been known to happen, but Oreius has _not_ been involved.)

"No, but we had to get up extra early for training this morning. But—girls—we shouldn't have run off like that, and your daddy and I won't be doing it again. Now, Susie, we're having a ball for the Telmarine ambassador in three days' time. Perhaps you and Lucy would like to have a party for Violetta and Gambetta then?"

* * *

"So, our footloose days are over," says Peter late that night when at last we are alone again. The domestic crises of the last two days have been resolved, the ambassador mollified with several hours of official meetings, the girls' lessons seen to—and I've dined for both luncheon and tea with my daughters and their friends the twin Archen princesses, on loan for the week from Cor and Aravis.

"Hmm?"

Peter stares moodily out the window. "You told the girls we wouldn't run off again."

"Oh." I hang up my dress and pull the long nightshirt over my head. "Well, there's always the lovely dungeon downstairs, isn't there? We've had fun there before."

"It's not a very big dungeon." His tone is petulant. "And the guards are such a hassle."

I splash water from the washstand on my face and run a comb through my hair. "Remember the time my mother arrived early for her yearly visit?" By some lookout mix-up, we only had a quarter-hour's notice—enough time to get me out of the shackles and wash off the worst of the mud, but not enough to change out of the torn jerkin and breeches.

"Do I ever. She gave me a chewing out that made Oreius seem friendly."

I wince, unclipping the wide gold bracelets I affected today and removing my earbobs. "My mother was always good at finding things to say. That was the only time I've ever seen her speechless." She came sweeping in with a cry of "Diamonda Estyl, my dear!" (as if I had always been her favorite daughter, no matter that we both knew it was never true before I married the King of Narnia) but with one horrified look at my uncovered head and the angry red mark rising on my cheek, she shut her ample mouth and let the hovering Dryad maids lead her off to her guest chambers.

Peter turns from the window. There is an odd look on his face and I fear we're in for another of those once-a-year conversations that dances in circles around _it_ and never resolves anything. "Estyl, why—" He takes my hand, touches the still-red abrasions I hid today with bracelets. "Why do you . . .?

"Because I love you."

Tonight, though, that answer isn't enough. "But why?"

I sigh and go to sit on the bed. He follows me. "Is this about your nightmares, Peter?"

"It isn't about me! Estyl, I want to hear about your—"

But it's easier to analyze him than to talk about myself. "What do you dream about that scares you so much?"

"I don't—"

"Don't say you don't know," I say, fixing him with a look halfway between my mother's and Oreius's. "I hear the names you say in your sleep."

He looks up sharply. "I—?"

"Peter. I am Queen of Narnia. I have been for ten years. I know the stories, even if you leave the hall whenever a visiting bard begins to sing."

"What . . . do they say, the bards?" The casual way he says this is belied by the way his knuckles whiten on his twisting fingers.

_Should I?_ For ten years he has barely spoken of his family, channeling all his pain and grief instead into our games. A stray word, a half-smile when something reminds him of his sisters—beautiful black-haired Susan and laughing blue-eyed Lucy, for whom our daughters are named—but always the shutters close again and he says nothing of his brother, the slim, dark-haired man he loved. And so I, too, avoid the subject, for when it arises of its own accord he spirals into a black depression almost as enveloping as the despair that cloaked him when we first met.

_Dare I?_ And then softly, gently, the answer comes. _Yes. Ten years—longer—is long enough._ I take a deep breath and wrap my fingers around his. "They say many things, my King, of that first fifteen years of your reign. They say . . . that it was a raw and wild time when Narnia's Sword and Shield stood back-to-back and none came between them. Dark and light, silver and gold, day and night, they rode through the land, befriending Dwarfs, slaying Giants, righting wrongs, and avenging evil. They were the Brother Kings of Narnia. They were—they are—legend."

(I also know—but it is not the time to speak of this—who ran the castle and oversaw trade and entertained visitors whenever the Kings were away on campaign, or deathly ill from poison, or held prisoner in any of the many dungeons, fell caves, and enchanted islands that in those days dotted the land. The bards hardly mention Peter's sisters, preferring the more thrilling tales of the Kings' exploits, but I, too, am a Queen, and though I never met them I have read the household records and pieced together scraps of songs until I feel great kinship for the women who loved and cared for the man I love and care for.)

Peter gnaws his lip and I try to think what to say next. "What do you dream of?" I ask again.

"We were riding through Narnia," he whispers. "The four of us."

_Oh_. I make an encouraging sound, willing him to share this deepest pain with me, yet afraid to prod too hard lest he flee.

"The four of us," he says again, his voice barely audible. "The people cried our names, and the others were laughing. But then I noticed that they—it seemed they couldn't see me, and when I looked down at myself, I wasn't there." His fingers tighten on mine. "I was a ghost, Estyl. Only the Animals could see me, and they hissed at me and said I was selfish for—that I should have gone with the others. But I tried, Estyl, _I tried_."

He draws a shaky breath and the last entry of the Queen Susan's diary flashes into my mind. _T. visited today. Said White Stag has been seen in Lantern Waste and will give wishes if caught. L excited, P still too weak to seat a horse. Says he has everything he cd. wish for & we must go ourselves. Lady R's daughter born today. Met with Terebinthian ambassador—king complaining of pirates under the Lion flag. Must remember to send L to investigate. Lune arrives tomorrow w. sons & L thinks we shd. invite them on hunt. (E now w. Peter—v. agitated & insisting he will not go w/o P, but P determined not to be a burden.)_

"No matter how hard I rode, I couldn't catch up," Peter says now, talking still of his dream. "And then—then they vanished, and no matter how I looked for them they didn't . . ." He looks away, and a tear runs down his cheek. "I betrayed him," he whispers. "I promised to take care of him and I didn't. He trusted me, just like you trusted me when you let me tie you to that tree yesterday, and I failed you, and I_—I betrayed Edmund_."

With that word, the dam breaks. I reach up and draw him down beside me, cradling his head in my arms as he sobs out his grief. I murmur soothings and I hold him, and when his shuddering eases a little I begin to speak, falling back on words familiar to any educated Narnian of this day.

"And then the High King mustered the army and searched long through the Lantern Waste and the Western March, and when none could find trace of his brother or sisters he dismissed them all and sent them home. With only the loyal Horse Phillip for companion, he climbed the mountains by the Great Waterfall and set out into the wild lands to the northwest, though his injuries were not yet healed."

I brush my fingers across his eyes. "How had you hurt yourself? Was that the time you were poisoned by the false knight or when the Giant club crushed your chest or was it the Hag who kept you for months in her cave?"

"Giant," he mumbles, tears still trickling down his nose.

"Ah. More than once have I heard the poets sing that tale, of the hidden island and the sorceress with the enchanted mirror, and giants different from the ones in the far northwest reaches. As he wandered, the King saw the wild and solitary giants who dwell in the caves of the hills, and strange things not seen in Narnia since the dawn of time. For a year the King roamed, wearing black armor so that none might recognize him in his grief, until at last he came to a small duchy beyond the giant-country."

"The bards do not tell this part of the story, for they do not know it. To you, my King, I shall tell it. The Duke and Duchess had five daughters, but no son, and by the laws of their country the ducal title would be inherited by the husband of the eldest daughter. The two older daughters, Twila and Giselle, were married, both to local lords, and the next two daughters each had her eye on a man, though of course they knew their father, the Duke, would choose their husbands.

"But the youngest daughter, Diamonda, refused to sit at her embroidery or exchange pretty compliments with the young men of the household. After all, she was merely the fifth daughter, with no great dowry and no great worth in marriage negotiations—"

"And so you taught yourself to ride and shoot and wield a sword," Peter murmurs. "You've told me that before." (It rather came out in our first week of marriage, when I was kidnapped by a Giant as we traveled back to Narnia, and surprised my new husband with my unexpected knife skills.) "But why? Why didn't you care what your family thought?"

"I did!" I forget to fit my words into the smooth phrases of the storytellers as I defend myself. "I _did._ I wanted so badly to marry, though I was always more of a tomboy than a young girl, and when I reached the age of young ladyship I tried desperately to make myself into the perfect daughter and future wife. I gave up my horses and my weapons training and even my books to spend my time stitching samplers and quilts and playing sweetly on the virginal. I hated it."

He frowns up at me, genuinely puzzled. "Isn't it more important for a wife to be able to manage the household records than to play music on the virginal?"

"Well, _now_ I know that, but _then_ I was at the mercy of my mother and governess and there were many things a proper woman needed to be skilled at. My older sisters learned to cipher and keep books, but then, they mimicked our mother in everything. If she corrected me once for something, they repeated it a dozen times, and when I complained she said, 'They must learn motherhood somehow, my daughter, and you cannot begrudge it them. Listen to them, for they are your elders, and do as they say with a smile.' I would vow never to speak again, but there was always something bursting in me, demanding to be said, and—it didn't go very well. Anyway, no one wanted the ugly fifth daughter."

"But were there no suitors? None at all?" Whenever this comes up he has a hard time fathoming how I reached the age of twenty-six without any suitors.

"None. It wasn't Narnia, Peter, just a backwater country beyond the land of the giants. My mother tried, but of course the girl's family cannot initiate a suit. Between my ugly face and my stubborn spirit, no one offered. One day I gave up and decided I didn't care anymore and went back to my horses and archery."

Peter sits up. "Don't _say_ that, Estyl." His fingers, rough like my own with sword and bow calluses, trace down my face where tears have betrayed me. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever known, though I admit I was terrified at first that under your beautiful body I'd married a rabbit—so quiet and meek."

_Your beautiful body. _"My mother—" I begin, and then all the memories of that week rise up from where I've hidden them. _My mother never thought she'd get rid of me, and swore if I disgraced her again—_ "My mother—" but the tears overwhelm me and I hate myself for always crying so easily but it hurts, it _hurts_ like I've never wanted to admit, and I pull away to bury my face in my hands, as if I can hide from the guilt and the shame that run in my very blood.

Peter draws me toward him, and I curl into his chest, my tears soaking his nightshirt. "When I first saw you," he says, so softly I have to listen for each word, "I'd already had all your sisters presented to me, and I was so tired I thought I would go to sleep on my feet right there in front of the Duke and the Duchess. Then you stepped forward, and your ridiculous headdress toppled off when you curtsied, and underneath it your hair was shorter than mine."

A sick feeling bubbles in my throat whenever I remember that moment—the humiliation, the dread of later facing my mother—but Peter's still speaking.

"Your hair looked so familiar that for a moment I thought you were—"

"Edmund."

He flinches. "Yes. But then you peeked up at me, and you—you weren't. I think it was the first time I'd noticed another person all year. I remember thinking you looked scared and angry, and like you'd been crying, and that your eyes were brown."

"You looked like a wild man of the woods, with your long hair and beard." I reach up to kiss him, nuzzling along his jaw where Celerus shaved him smooth today. "Mad Maid 'Monda and Wild King Peter."

He kisses me back, and then breaks it off to say. "Wild King Peter has not forgotten his grumpiness over his curtailed freedom."

I lower my head and look up at him through my lashes. "Oh? Will King Peter have to punish his D for being naughty and speaking out of turn?"

"Oooh," he growls. "As High King, I say you must be spanked for that."

"You'll have to catch me first!" I cry, leaping off the bed.

"Dare you defy Our authority?"

"I do! I do! I—aaaah! Wait! Let me talk first!"

He halts, pinning my arms to my sides. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"My King, I know how you enjoy our rides together and the games we play to amuse ourselves, yet we cannot always be leaving the castle, and as you yourself said, the dungeons downstairs start to feel small after a whole winter cooped up inside. Therefore, since I am a wise and thoughtful Queen, who anticipates her King's desires before he knows them himself—"

He kisses the side of my neck, and I grin.

"—I spoke a fortnight ago with the Moles, and arranged for a perfectly delightful network of tunnels and caves to be dug underneath the dungeons, as a surprise for your birthday, where we can while away the hours playing that we flee imagined enemies together, or rescuing each other, or hiding in caves we find along the way to tend each other's wounds. _Just like in the old days_."

He is silent for a moment, wavering between the beauty of the gift I have arranged for him and the invitation of my coded words. "Nevertheless," he says, considering—

I hold my breath, waiting for his choice. I've had about all the soul-searching emotion I can stand in one day and I really would rather he not go the route of soppy gratitude.

"Nevertheless, D, while that is an _extremely lovely_ birthday present, I fear you still must be spanked for openly defying my express command and resisting punishment."

I hang my head, but can't resist smiling as I slide into the game. I know there is more to be said between us, more stories that need to be told and names that need to be said, but the dam that has kept them locked away inside us for so long has finally cracked. It is enough for today, and now, this is how we slowly begin to heal each other's hurts.

However much pain still lies buried, we have a solid love to stand on as we dig it out, and ten years of comforting each other even when we don't know what the matter is. After so long, there's a deep familiarity to the way he moves, the way he breathes, the way he looks at me and the adoration in his eyes fills the aching places in my heart. Here with Peter, I am never unwanted or unloved, and he is never alone. I am worthy. I am needed, just as I need him. We complement each other perfectly, his strength to my weakness and my insight for his blindness. It is a rhythm, a dance, a song, this marriage of dark and bright, silver and gold, night and day.

_King and Queen._

* * *

**AN2: Well, if you made it this far, we applaud you. In case you still were wondering_—_  
**

**This fic was born one night as V and I discussed the brotherfic/bromance phenomenon, and how unrealistic it is for grown men to cry in each others arms and discuss their emotions to the ends of the earth and back. It's just not something guys really do, and the only place you see that outside of brotherfic is ... slash. So we looked around and read some slash in the pursuit of research, and did a major o.O at how similar it all sounded to standard Peter & Edmund brother bonding.**

**We concluded that the fanon Peter & Edmund relationship is far too intimate for a pair of platonic brothers, and is actually on a level better suited to a married couple. Not only that, but it would have to be a pretty abnormal married couple to be _that_ angsty and guilty and weepy. **

**There's other negative characterization tropes at play in the brotherfic/bromance genre, but the biggest is the marginalization of women. Besides Susan and Lucy, who almost never appear except in relation to their brothers, and rarely have any kind of real agency (Susan portrayed as the fussy older sister and later, the apostate, Lucy a perpetual child), it's extremely hard to find a Peter & Edmund fanfic that has any good woman characters. Too often the women are the sorceresses, the villainesses, the helpless weaklings, the evil Sues come to divide the brothers and entrap them in _horrible romantic love._**

**So, you see, this story was an experiment in real-world ramifications of a relationship like the fanon Peter & Edmund one, and also a tweaking of the tropes. The infantalized women? Here, they're actually children (and we couldn't resist pointing out why the original Susan and Lucy were awesome queens). Peter tying Edmund up "for his own good"? Here, it's a game they play and both enjoy. Women in cultures where they don't have much agency and are more or less the property of the men? Here, with Estyl/D, we tried to touch on the damage that can cause. The brothers being separated and the other one being unable to bear it? Yeah. Here it is taken to its extreme and logical conclusion: they would be _devastated, and it would take years to heal, _ especially if Aslan doesn't always show up to wave a magic wand and bring everyone back to life.  
**

**Anyway, this is a treatise-length Authors' Note to tack onto a long concluding chapter to a story that became far longer than either of us expected. We only planned on two chapters!  
**

**To those of you who read and reviewed all along, thank you again for your time. We hope we made you think.**

**~ V & K**


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